


Bucky has SPD. So what? So a lot of things.

by awbucks



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pre-war - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M, Neurodivergent!Bucky, Pre-War, Sensory Processing Disorder, Skinny!Steve, bucky has spd in this, he also flaps and stims, may go into present, preserum!Steve, pretty much all of the sensory input skinny steve lacks buck has, slight abuse, tw abuse, we'll see, what a cutie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:06:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awbucks/pseuds/awbucks
Summary: Bucky has all that Steve doesn't. The energy. The strength. The class-A senses. Except that's where it gets him. Lots of times, it get's to be too much for Bucky. Blocks his ears, covers his eyes, trying to diffuse the pain that rains in his head.  He exerts that energy with his hands, tapping, flapping, until his father forces him to stop, 'cause there's no Barnes in his house who's a fool.Steve's there for Bucky the way Bucky is there for Steve. He let's him keep things quiet, or turn off the lights. Because for him, Bucky's panics are just as hard as his own asthma attacks.(Note: I have posted this before, but I've added some things and cleaned it up. Give it a reread)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so I have SPD and stim, so Bucky's experiences are based on mine, just wanted to put that out there
> 
> hope y'all like it. any feedback, comments are welcome!
> 
> and also, I added some stuff and edited this, so if you've read it before, consider giving it a reread!

Bucky was a weird kid. Shoot. I didn’t mean it that way. ‘Cause I’m weird too. Like I ain’t that fast and can’t hear too well, but my ma tells me I can draw a mean picture. Buck’s like that too, but different. One time he even told me he’d wanna switch places, it’d be easier for him. ‘Cause then it’d already be nice n’ quiet. He wouldn’t hafta cover his ears or squint his eyes cause it’d already be hazy n’ hushed up. He wouldn’t be so embarrassed about his excitement. When he breaks into a smile brighter than Coney Island on fourth of July and his hands dance up and down, like he can’t contain his joy. I say it’s great, that I wish he could send me somma his energy so I could keep up, but he just shakes his head a bunch and tells me it’s not true. It’s not proper, his ma says, messes up his hair and draws attention. His father just pushes his hands down when they’re up or stick his palms over Bucky’s- like snuffing out a candle. 

Anyways, it ain’t that he’s weird, it’s just that he lights it all up, makes me see blue even though I can’t, stumbles through books for me when I catch fevers and lets me hug him tight when he flinches at everyone else. 

Bucky dropped the journal, knowing already that he’d read too much. He just had gotten caught up in it, in Steve’s curlicue handwriting, the way that he’d gone into detail about...about him. All the things he’d wrote were true, how he wished somedays he could take Stevie’s bad hearing and his dull sight, just so he could rest. Was a mean thought, the priest at confession had told him so, but he thought it just the same. Wouldn’t be it nicer that way? Steve’d get to hear the fireworks on his birthday clear as day and get to use his entire box of crayons without having to ask which was which. 

But that wasn’t how it all turned out, so they both had to cut their loses and move on. That’s what his father said. That all the loud noises and fast, swirling lights, you just had to man up and deal with them. Bucky had nodded, but then gone to his room and shook under his blankets. 

The next morning he was stonefaced at breakfast, but didn’t flinch or move a muscle. His father had patted his shoulder on the way to work. After a week of doing what he wanted, he slipped him a nickel. Bucky had used it to buy him and Steve a float down at the drugstore. 

Bucky knelt down and retrieved Steve’s notebook and closed it, placing it where it was supposed to be. Not where he’d found it, that had been on the floor, pages flapping in the breeze. Bucky left his room as quick as he’d entered, making sure the door closed securely behind him. 

“That was quick, Bucky.” Steve muttered, not looking up from his sketch. Sometimes, when he needed a break, Steve let him go to his bedroom, it was quieter than Bucky’s room at home, facing the courtyard rather than the street. 

He sat on the other end of the sofa, picking his book up again. 

“Guess so,” He’d just gotten The Hobbit from the library, and, boy, was it good. When they’d go back to school Monday he’d have to tell Miss Fredericks. She’d been pestering him to read it since the first day of sixth grade. He couldn’t focus on it though. His brain was going off in a hundred directions. One of his hands began shaking tightly down by his outstretched legs. Even in Steve’s empty apartment, he was conscious and hiding it. 

Eventually, he jammed his fist into his pocket and forced it to stop moving. But his mind was on Steve’s private words. 

Sure, Bucky knew he was weird. His father never stopped telling him. It was strange to know that Steve thought it as well. But what surprised him was how he actually appreciated it. How he got when they listened to records, or when he talked about his sci-fi novels. That when he, without even thinking, would shake his hands up near chest or shake his head, mussing up his hair. 

Bucky had been told time and time again, in both gentle and hard ways that it wasn’t a proper thing for a twelve year old boy to be doing. Never, in his life, had someone smiled fondly or let him be. 

Except Steve. Steve who was bent over his sketchbook, furiously dragging his lead over the paper. Steve who clipped out comics to stick in both their schoolbooks. Steve who let him talk and talk and the very same Steve who he was comfortable hugging or holding hands when they had sleepovers. 

“Steve?” His friend looked up, mind still on his drawing. 

“Yeah, Buck?” His legs dangled off the sofa, heels absently kicking the cushions. 

“Y’know you’re my best friend, right?” Steve smiled, and looked back down at his paper. 

“Well, you’re mine, too, Buck.” Bucky leaned over and stuck out his pinky. 

“Till the end of the line?” He asked, cocking a smirk. Steve wrapped his skinny finger around Bucky’s, laughing quietly. 

“Till the end of the line.” 

Lines had no end. They’d learned that this year in math, and it’d become their personal turna phrase. They released each other’s grasps and leaned back into the sofa. Bucky reopened his book and tried to get back into it. Boy, as much as he wanted to, it was hard. The hair on his neck seemed to be prickling and each of his fingertips picked up on every thread of his pants and the patterned sofa. The streams of sunlight stung his eyes. 

Bucky bit his lip to suppress a groan. It made him want both curl into a ball and punch something hard, just to distract him from everything else he was feeling. He dug his heels into the sofa cushion and flipped the page, shoulders hitched. 

He just had to breath. Couldn’t forget that, ‘cept when everything seemed so close and so loud. 

He just tried to read his book. After all, he’d need to have something to talk about with Miss Fredericks, right?

“Bucky dear?” He suddenly looked up, seeing Mrs. Rogers in the doorway. His eyes went to the clock, five-thirty already? Jeez. Bucky felt like he’d just started chapter three. 

“Buck?” It was Steve, poking his foot with his. He finally looked up. 

“Is my father here?” He asked, blindly standing when he saw Mrs. Rogers nod. He gathered his things and headed for the door. On the way by, he made sure to wave and smile at Steve, even if his expression was forced. 

“See you tomorrow, Steve.” 

His father was standing there on the Rogers’ stoop, clenching his cap in his hands, chin jut out and gaze flying. It was like he wanted to step in, make small talk with Mrs. Rogers, smile for once, but just couldn’t. 

“Hey, dad.” He said, pulling at the straps of his bag. His father quirked his lips up, it was gone in an instant. 

“You mind yourself at the Rogers’?” Was the first question. He nodded, focusing on stepping over the cracks on the sidewalk rather than the conversation. 

“Act proper?” A disguised way of saying ‘you act like a fool?’

“Mmhm.” 

“James!” His hand came and grasped Bucky’s shoulder with a pinch. Bucky looked up at his father with a wild gaze. 

“Speak clearly! You won’t get anywhere as a mumbler!” He thrust a finger to his chest, before dropping it. Like me, he meant. 

“Yessir.” Mr. Barnes nodded stiffly and tugged Bucky in tightly by his shoulder, ruffling his hair and kissing his bangs. 

“Good.” He muttered softly, the voice he used to read to Bucky with creeping back in. It made Bucky feel a bit better. 

They got to their brownstone. His father gently pushed him forward. “Go see if your Ma needs any help with dinner.” Bucky bet he was gonna go to the little stand on the corner to buy an evening paper. 

Bucky ran up the concrete steps and pulled the door open, making sure he brushed his shoes off on the welcome mat before making his way into the kitchen, the scents of dinner overwhelming his nose. He tried not to scrunch it up. 

“I’m home, ma!”

_____________________________

Bucky had just been picked up by his father, who worked at the factory down about twenty blocks. He was a slouchy, weathered man who Bucky resembled an awful lot in Steve’s opinion. He’d come to the door, hat in his fists, twisting it back and forth. He was chewing on his lip too. He’d told Bucky that it was due time for him to be home, so hurry up and get your things. 

Bucky complied, sticking his book and cards into his knapsack and jamming his hands deep into his pockets. He had barely said a word to his father, his goodbye to Steve barely audible, a rarity for Bucky. Usually, his voice jumped and danced, loud enough for even Steve’s bum ear. Once he and his father were out on the street, Sarah Rogers sat down by her son, on their worn thin, faded sofa. She cleared her throat, prompting Steve to look up at her. He was only slightly starled, feeling her weight on the seat before registering sound. 

 

“When did James start doing..." His mother looked away, but then refocused on her son. She was slightly concerned about Steve’s friend. It almost seemed as though he was twitching. 

"When he gets excited, ma?" Steve supplied. She nodded. Steve thought back for a moment. 

"Since I can remember. He just..." he had to bottle his smile because this was a serious matter to his ma. 

"Has more emotion than he can use, it's how I always saw it." Not everyone saw it that way, his father had a penchant for rapping his knuckles or grabbing his hands between his own, startlingly similar long fingers. Steve remembered a time when he'd been at the Barnes and seen it unfold himself. Bucky was distant, all but silent the rest of the night, leaning against Steve as he drew up in the room Bucky shared with his brother. He'd wrapped a blanket around his shoulders even though it was June and just fidgeted around, rubbing his thumb on the stone he'd found at Coney Island, absently sliding a deck of cards around in his hand. 

He and Bucky didn't talk about those times. Buck was embarrassed enough about his own way already. 

His mother made a sound of acknowledgement. Still, Steve noted, there still seemed to be something on her mind. He narrowed his eyes, brows furrowed. 

“Why ma?” She shrugged, looking at her short fingernails as though she’d just painted them. 

“It may seem that everyone believes you are lucky to have a nice, strong friend like James, but,” Mrs. Rogers smiled, pecking her son on the forehead. 

“He’s just as lucky to have you at his side.”


	2. Bucky's First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's first kiss. Pretty self explanatory, but I didn't go the traditional route, hope y'all like it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, if you enjoyed give it a comment! I really appreciate it!
> 
> Again, I, the author has SPD and stims, so his experiences are somewhat based on mine.

It was a sunny day in June, when the sun beat down Bucky’s back, prickling his neck with beads of sweat. Bucky was sixteen, and he was standing tall on the pitcher’s mound. Bottom of the eighth inning, and they were tied. Bucky was only sixteen, but already the team's best pitcher. What could he say? He had good aim. He just had to get the next batter out, his whole team was counting on it. Fred was counting on it.

Fred. With the honey brown hair lighter than his own and the eyes, green, flecked with gold. Who he referred to as a nice girl whenever his ma asked if there were ladies he’d like to take for a milkshake. The third basemen, who could recite all the Presidents and played trumpet, who would dance with him when there were no gals. Would brush his fingers when they sat down at the movies. He was counting on Bucky to win. 

He cocked his elbow up and poised himself to throw. He’d been holding this inning by himself on the mound, he just had to get this kid out. Bucky pulled his arm back, lifted his foot off the ground, aiming the ball so it’d reach the catcher rather than the bat. He inhaled, air drenched with pollen going up his nose, and threw. 

“Strike one!” The umpired called out, hands planted firmly on his legs. The catcher, Tom Harris, tossed the ball back, and the resumed the position. After the game, he and Fred were going to go down to the dance halls, it being a Friday, Bucky could get away with that sort of thing. His ma didn’t worry, unless he missed dinner Saturday. Would of asked Steve to come, too, but the almost-summer heat all but closed his lungs off for good and Mrs. Rogers wasn’t about to let her son go out dancing.

“Strike two!” A little smirk played on Bucky’s lips, they were almost there. Bucky caught the ball again from Tom and shook his arms out, his heart beating tight in his chest as the last pitch was coming up. Bucky squared up his shoulders, his bangs plastered to his forehead. This pitch would either send Bucky’s team to victory or defeat. 

“Foul!” Shit. He was glad his ma wasn’t here to hear him cuss. He got the ball back and took a moment. Eyes closed, Bucky centered himself, the grit of the sand beneath his sneakers that had somehow made it into his socks, the soft breeze. He opened them, and looked back, saw Fred in position at third base. He smiled at Bucky, Bucky grinned back. Boy, was he cute. 

Not that Bucky should be thinking that. Or, to be clear, he wasn’t allowed to be thinking that. Bucky did anyway. Because who couldn’t think that about Fred? Spray of freckles, quiet laugh, too good for Bucky, he was sure of that. 

Bucky put his focus back on the game, staring down the batter, and then zeroing in on the catcher’s mitt. He pulled back, bit his lip, and threw. 

“Strike three, you’re out!” Bucky froze on the mound, shooting his hands into the air, letting out a loud whoop. 

“Let’s hear it for our star pitcher!” Fred had ran up behind him and slung his arm across Bucky’s shoulders. The rest of the team gathered ‘round, all spouting congratulations to each other. Fred had brought him close with his arm, without meaning to, most likely, but Bucky liked the closeness anyway. Fred always smelled like the outdoors, the real outdoors, gardens and trees and freshly tilled soil. The Andersons’ had moved to Brooklyn from New Hampshire. 

Fred had pulled them from the rest of the group and gave Bucky a blinding grin. It made him go weak at the knees. 

Bucky was putty in Fred’s hands, following him to down behind the dugout, where the fence gated the park off from the back alley it was built in front of. Back there, it was cool and dry, the two boys standing shoulder to shoulder, leaning up against the rough wooden slats. 

“We won, Freddy!” He exclaimed, hands flying. The swooped up to his collar, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure how they were supposed to work. He shook his head a bit, hair flying. 

“We won, damn it!” He said, seeing that Fred’s expression was almost identical to his. Fred was laughing, not at him, no, but in pleasure. He nodded, taking a step closer to Bucky. Bucky could see the intricacies of his freckles, the idea of facial hair around his mouth and cheeks, how dazzling his green eyes were. 

“We did, Bucky.” Fred said back, his voice suddenly much softer than it had been out on the field. Movements slower, gentler, too. Bucky quieted with him, gaze meeting Fred’s, their noses almost touching. He swore Fred could hear his heartbeat, it was so loud, roaring in his ears. Who knew a fella….no, Bucky had always known how nice fellas looked. He couldn’t lie to himself. 

And then it was heaven. Usually, Bucky didn’t like kisses, from his aunties or grandmother, sloppy, lipstick stains to his cheek, made him want to wash his face with bleach and sometimes, if he was having an already bad day, would send him into one of his ‘fits.’ Fred had tipped his face forwards, pressing his lips to Bucky’s, gently reaching up to his jittery hands and cupping them with his own. It wasn’t like when his father stopped them; this wasn’t a hard squeeze, pushing pain into his fingers, stunting him. Fred’s hands were careful not to be too tight, but he still claimed his presence. In more than one spot. 

Fred stood back from Bucky, eyes wide.

“Holy mother of god…” He muttered, looking down at the dirt, only glancing up at Bucky for milliseconds. They couldn’t discuss this openly, or ever, if they were smart. But judging by the fact that neither of them had ran, and they hadn’t even distanced themselves, they weren’t. 

“What have I done?” Fred said again, running his fingers through his hair. Bucky swallowed, and bit his lip, still warm from the kiss.  
“I...I...I liked it,” He managed, now finding it hard himself to look Fred in the eye. He heard Fred gasp quietly and felt his emerald eyes on him. 

“Really? You...you....” You’re a queer too? Not just me? I’m not the only freak? 

“Yeah.” He reached over and squeezed his friend’s hand,Bucky wishing he was allowed to call him his guy. Fred froze for a moment and then gripped his hand. They’d have to get back out there, he was starting to hear the other players and the coach’s voices, wondering where two fo their players were. 

“We should go to the movies sometime,” Fred finally met his eyes again, Bucky could see poor Fred’s were wet. How he wanted to kiss him again….

“Maybe get a milkshake after?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, my guys, gals and nonbinary pals! hope it was what you were looking for
> 
> and as always....kudos? comments? nah?

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! like, bookmark, whateva ;)


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